


The Amazing Part Is

by TroubleIWant



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Break-up Make-up, Canon Divergent, Future Fic, M/M, POV Second Person, happy endings all around, mild angst?, outsider pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-12
Updated: 2016-10-12
Packaged: 2018-08-22 01:02:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8266982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TroubleIWant/pseuds/TroubleIWant
Summary: You’re in love with a beautiful boy, and the amazing part is that he loves you back. He’s all dark honey eyes and buttermilk skin, moles down his neck that he lets you kiss and kiss again. He’s all sharp laughter and too wide sweeps of his arms, and it’s been ten months but you’re not thinking about your first anniversary you’re thinking about forever.





	

You’re in love with a beautiful boy, and the amazing part is that he loves you back. He’s all dark honey eyes and buttermilk skin, moles down his neck that he lets you kiss and kiss again. He’s all sharp laughter and too wide sweeps of his arms, and it’s been ten months but you’re not thinking about your first anniversary you’re thinking about _forever_.

He tells you about the town he’s from, and you know those years growing up are built into the bedrock of him. But you also know that there are reasons he’s not going back. Things happened there that were the kind of bad he’s only come to terms with half way. He won’t quite tell you what they are, but he gives you the outlines: Erica, Boyd, Allison. You think it may have been something to do with drugs, definitely sounds like gangs. That was all a long time ago, though. You don’t hold it against him. How could you?

You don’t live together but you have a toothbrush in his bathroom. There’s a side of his bed that’s yours, a phone charger and two old glasses of water on the nightstand. When you say you love him, he smiles and he says, “I love you, too,” so brightly, like you’re a quick student who got the right answer. He says it like he’s pleased with you, like a reward. He doesn’t say it first, but then he isn’t particularly romantic. He’s fun and he can be thoughtful, but he doesn’t do lovey-dovey. He doesn’t do intense. Stiles is flighty, almost weightless in his constantly flitting attention. But you have a toothbrush in his bathroom, and you love him.

You also have a key, the six month anniversary present which you use to let yourself into the apartment one typical autumn afternoon. You’re only holding take-out, not flowers. It would probably have been too much of a cliche if you were holding flowers. Even without them, you feel dumb enough opening the door and realizing, Yummi House Thai bag in hand, that Stiles is not alone.

They’re only standing in the living room, at opposite ends no less, but you feel distinctly like you’re interrupting something. Stiles glances at you, jaw tight. The other man fixes you with a glare like he’s hoping the weight of it could send you right back out the door. Honestly, it’s a close thing. The guy’s muscular, with distressingly handsome features as sharp as if they were chiseled out of something hard. He’s all dark hair and crisp-edged stubble that makes his eyes look that much softer. He has a way of holding himself that implies he and violence are old friends.

Stiles says your name, both greeting and introduction. The man doesn’t give a name back, but he says it’s nice to meet you. His tone is inscrutable: Sarcasm, hurt, respect? Something. You repeat the sentiment and your tone is pretty clear: confused and intimidated.

You look over at Stiles for some sort of cue about what happens next. Stiles glowers, his lips plumping and twisting as he chews the inside of his mouth. His nostrils are flaring a bit and he still hasn’t more than glanced at you. There’s an expression on his face you’ve never seen and his gaze fixed on this stranger is hotter than you imagined it could be, practically glowing.

“So, are we done?” Stiles asks.

The man shrugs, purposefully casual. “Scott told me to come and let you know,” he says, a current of defensiveness under the cool tone.

You remember Scott - the best friend. You know his face from the pictures on the fridge, his voice from the Skype calls Stiles is sometimes on when you visit. You’ve never seen this other man in any of Stiles’ photos.

“Awesome!” Stiles snaps. “Mission accomplished. Great to see you, Derek, can’t wait ‘till next time.”

And you think, _wait, Derek?_ in disbelief. Derek the odd man out, the older guy on the edges of Stiles’ stories. It had always seemed like he was barely part of the friend group, as far as Stiles was concerned. How could he be the one standing in the living room like he’s the sharp storm wind and Stiles is his weathervane, how could this near stranger be making Stiles so… everything?

It doesn’t make sense, until it makes too much sense.

Derek leaves, not quite brushing his shoulder past yours, making you move out of his way. It’s such a stupid, highschool thing that you’re caught off guard by it. By what it means that this greek statue of a man feels the need to prove he has some sort of dominance over you.

Stiles not-quite-slams the door behind him. There are two bright splotches of color on his cheeks that you’ve only ever seen when he’s working out. You didn’t even know he could look that way just getting emotional. Probably because, you realize, you’ve never seen him get emotional. The way he folds away all of the things Derek brought out is an almost physical process - rolling shoulders, shake of the head, expression twisting before it settles into the wry calm you’re so familiar with.

“So,” he says lightly, finally looking at you. “Sorry about all that. Home stuff. Aw, you brought dinner!”

Moving the food to your mouth like a mechanical task, you can’t help but be amazed by how perfectly normal Stiles seems even now. What you saw in the living room must have been just under the surface this whole time and you never, ever knew.

You don’t have sex. It’s not that you’re worried he’d be thinking of Derek - your body is so different, completely unmistakable for his, that it would be impossible. Intentionally so, you assume. Stiles could never think about him when you’re together, but you know that not thinking about him is the point, and that somehow seems worse.

He falls asleep just like normal, but you can’t. You watch the familiar up-down of his sleeping chest, the undefended parting of his lips, and you let yourself hate him, just for a moment.

Stiles’ phone is technically locked, but you’ve watched him check texts enough that the pattern of numbers comes as easily as if it was your muscle memory. Your legs shiver in the cold kitchen, skin sticky on the dining room chair as you scroll through the names - full first name and last initial for everyone. You scroll past yours, same format. There’s only one that doesn’t follow the pattern. It’s just a note-to-self: “Don’t.”

You do.

“Stiles?” Derek says, and the asshole sounds surprised and mad and wary all at once, laced with a tiny sliver of hopeful.

“Nope,” you say, and you pop your “p” like Stiles would, petty, trying to prove something. That you know his habits, too. That you count.

“Why are you calling,” Derek says flatly, after a pause. You wish you were sure.

“What happened between you two?” you demand. Like off a bad script. Jesus, Stiles makes you embarrassing.

“Nothing,” Derek says. Which may well be the truth, or might be a lie draped over anything from a years-long relationship to a one night stand. Maybe he’s telling you what you want to hear, because he thinks you make Stiles happy.

You push on, a dog with a bone. “Well, who ended the nothing?”

“I don’t know, nobody,” Derek answers. “Both of us. It’s not…”

“Who does Stiles think ended it?”

An exhausted sigh. “Probably me.”

“Do you love him?”

“That doesn’t…” Derek starts. You cut him off.

“Do you?”

“It’s _Stiles_ ,” Derek says helplessly, and for a second you feel that you understand each other perfectly.

“I’m breaking up with him,” you say. You weren’t sure until the words were out of your mouth, but it’s probably been coming since you saw the way Stiles looked at Derek and realized the way he doesn’t look at you. Won’t ever look at you. “You better fucking be there to pick up the pieces.”

“But…”

“You do not have the right to try and talk me out of this for his sake,” you hiss. He doesn’t argue, and you wait until your breathing evens out a little. “Just call him tomorrow. Drive down, I don’t know. Be there for him.”

“Why are you doing this?” Derek asks, bewildered.

“You mean why am I breaking up with him? Because he doesn’t love me. Or did you mean, why am I helping you? Maybe ‘cause the next person who falls for him deserves to know he’s taken after ten minutes, not after _ten fucking months_.” You hurl the wasted time at him like a weapon. Crying now, just lovely, like an actor on one of your mother’s stupid soaps. “He’s still in love with you.”

“Stiles doesn’t love me,” Derek says and you laugh at him, sharp and a little hysterical. _Welcome to the club,_ you want to say, _of people who are completely wrong about whether Stiles loves them._

And speak of the devil; your wild laugh, or maybe the harsh words before it, must have woken him up. He’s in the doorway, rubbing the palm of his hand across his face. His hair is all standing up, you can almost see the goosebumps on his forearms.

Then he notices you’re on the phone, in tears, and his confusion settles into anxiety.

“Who’re you… whatcha doing?” he says.

“I’m telling Derek Hale you’re still in love with him,” you say conversationally. “Or that you’re in love with him, period - sorry, not sure what has or hasn’t been said yet.” It’s cruel, exceptionally so judging from Stiles’ expression, the way his knees actually buckle for a split second before he catches himself, staggering. Nobody could blame you for being a little satisfied by that, considering.

“I’m getting my stuff,” you say. “We’re breaking up. Don’t follow me and don’t fucking call.”

“No, wait,” Stiles says.

“Because you love me, and all this with Derek is just in the past?” Stiles’ mouth opens and his eyes flick to the phone in your hand. He says nothing, which is expected but painful. “You are not doing me or anyone a favor by pretending,” you say. “He loves you, too, you asshole.”

You don’t hang up, you just chuck the phone at Stiles, who manages to fumblingly catch it. He doesn’t follow you to the bedroom.

It takes pathetically few minutes to get all your stuff. The toothbrush, the extra charger, three t-shirts and some underwear. You feel so stupid, so incredibly dumb for thinking it meant anything to leave stuff at his place. Not even that much of it, it turns out. Enough to fill half a grocery bag.

You try not to wonder, over the next months, if your temper tantrum prompted them to fix anything. If they stayed on the line, admitted whatever needed admitting. Made their apologies, if that’s what it was. You’re not sure which you hate more, the idea of Stiles and Derek wrapped around each other, laughing and kissing at last, or the idea of them out in the world trying to cover their sharp pain with people who don’t know yet that they’re dating half of a some crazy years-long love story that doesn’t include them. It takes a long time to admit that the first one is better, that you’re hoping Stiles is happy even if it’s not with you.

You only see him one more time. It’s a year and a half later, summer, and you’re going up to Seattle to visit your new boyfriend’s parents. You stop for gas in some nothing Nor-Cal town and you don’t realize where you are until you’re parked and your boyfriend is outside trying to figure out the old pump. Beacon Hills.

It’s still not that small of a town, so it must be fate that Stiles is there too, slouched against a ridiculous black Camaro parked in front of the mini-mart, waiting but not anxiously. Recognition hits you in the gut like a physical blow.

Does he look the same, or different? Is he happier? You can’t tell. He’s still got those familiar long limbs, and his face is sun-kissed, untroubled. He looks like he might be happier than when you knew him, which is what you wanted after all.

You’re still wondering if it makes sense to get out of the car and say hello when he glances over and double-takes. You force a smile, and it comes easier than you would have guessed. His surprised expression is so familiar, an echo of so many things. It makes you ache, yes, but you’d expected knives. Stiles’ mouth twitches into a smile to answer yours and he takes a hand out of his pocket to wave. You make a small gesture at him with the tips of your fingers. You settle into the ache, feel the limits of it. It’s not such a huge wound, in the end. It doesn’t touch all of you.

Your boyfriend gets back in the car, looks at you quizzically.

“You know, I used to date that guy,” you say, tipping your head towards the windshield.

He looks at Stiles and says, “huh.” He’s surprised, but not overly so. You know this because you’re looking at him, your boyfriend, his dark skin and the elegant curve of his nose. He’s all careful plans and dry jokes, deep thoughtful silences when he reads news blogs on his ipad in the mornings.

You’re looking at your boyfriend because you don’t care what Stiles thinks of him, you want to know what he thinks of Stiles. It takes you back, almost viscerally, to that evening in the living room. How Stiles had been looking at Derek with every need and emotion bubbled right up to the surface and Derek hadn’t even known. Must have been so used to seeing that expression on Stiles’ face that it didn’t register for what it was.

“Do you wanna say ‘hi’?” your boyfriend asks, and you shake your head. Nothing to say.

You’re back on the freeway in minutes, and already you know that you won’t see Stiles again. And that you don’t need to, really.

You were in love with a beautiful boy, and the tragic part is that he never loved you back. The amazing part is that you can fall in love again.

**Author's Note:**

> This one has been on Tumblr for a while, but I got a couple requests to put it here for easier bookmarking etc :)
> 
> Other short fics and various Sterek spazzing can be found on Tumblr, where I am also [TroubleIWant](http://troubleiwant.tumblr.com/)!!


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